Cursed blood

The fury in her eyes dimmed. She exhaled slowly. Stepped back just a little more, her gaze never leaving him.

Ian could feel the shift in the room. The tension was still there, thick as ever, but something about it changed. The edge of rage… dulled by something else. Recognition, maybe. Or pity.

Her voice came quieter now. "You don't know," she said.

It wasn't a question. More like an observation. She studied his face for a long moment, then slowly circled him, the apple still untouched in her hand.

"You're a red head," she said, as if it explained everything.

Ian blinked. "Yeah...?"

She stopped behind him.

"Your type brings chaos. Death. Misfortune."

He turned his head slightly, confused. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"You were born with cursed blood," she continued, voice calm, but flat. "Your kind has been hunted for centuries. Burned. Hanged. Drowned. Always... always bringing ruin behind them."

Ian didn't speak. He just listened. Breath low.

"The last red-headed man was killed sixty years ago," she said. "Publicly. And the people cheered. Because it meant peace."

Now she stepped in front of him again.

"That's why they spat on you," she added. "Why they threw waste. Why even the poorest of the poor turned their nose at you." Ian swallowed hard. The silence between them stretched. He wasn't special here...He was cursed.

And now, he finally understood the looks. The way even the guards smirked when trash hit his face. They didn't see him as a stranger, they saw him as a monster.

The queen stepped closer again...this time, slower.

She leaned in...Her breath brushed against his cheek as she spoke low, just for him.

"There's something about you…" she whispered.

"I don't know what it is yet... but I'll find out."

Ian didn't dare speak.

His heart beat loud in his ears, louder than the sound of her footsteps as she pulled away. The room suddenly felt colder.

She turned to her guards, voice sharp again. "Take him back to the cell." They moved at once.

As two of them stepped forward, she raised her hand again. "Feed him," she said, almost like an afterthought. "Let him be strong when the time comes."

The guards nodded.

Ian didn't resist this time. He couldn't. His legs were unsteady, his head was spinning, and whatever strength he had left was swallowed by the weight of her words.

They dragged him again, not as rough as before, but no kindness in their grip either.

As they led him out, he turned his head slightly, just once, and caught one last glimpse of her standing at the foot of her throne. Behind her eyes, something was working, she was in a deep thought.

Ian knew he was living on borrowed time. They might feed him, keep him alive another day, maybe two. But as far as the world was concerned, he was already a dead man.

They shoved him back in the cell.

A few minutes later, the cell bars was opened , and a tray slid inside. They didn't even say anything.

On it sat a wooden bowl of soup, thin, with an oily film on top, a chunk of hard bread that looked like it had seen better decades, and a bucket of water. Dirty, but cold.

He stared at it for half a second before grabbing the water first.

It wasn't clean. It tasted like metal. But he didn't care. He drank it like it was the last liquid left in the world. Gulp after gulp. A bit spilled down his chin, but he wiped it with his sleeve, panting from how fast he'd downed it.

"Jesus Christ…" he muttered, staring at the bread like it had personally offended him. He picked it up, bit into it—then cursed under his breath. Too hard. Like chewing rock.

So he tore it into smaller pieces, dumped them in the soup, and waited for it to soften. He stirred it with his fingers, then scooped soggy bits of bread and soup into his mouth.

It was gross. Barely tasted like anything. But it filled the hole in his stomach. And that was enough.

He was halfway through the bowl when he heard a voice. Low and raspy, from the cell across.

"...Got any bread left?" the voice asked.

He couldn't see the speaker. Just darkness beyond the bars across from his. He looked down at the last chunk of bread still sitting in the soup. Just enough to ease the gnawing in his belly.

He grumbled. "It's not much."

"I don't need much," the voice said. "Just a bite." Ian hesitated. His stomach growled again, as if to argue. But still…..He sighed, scooped the soggy bread, stood up, and tossed it in the direction of the voice.

He didn't wait to hear thanks.

He just sat back down and wiped his hands on his pants, licking what soup was left from his fingers.

Ian heard the sound of scuffle. Quick hands against stone, then a loud, hungry bite — like the man hadn't eaten in days.

"Ahhh, bless you, stranger," the voice said between chews, muffled by a mouthful of wet bread. "Tastes like shit, but it's better than dying with an empty stomach."

Ian didn't answer....He just sat there, back against the wall, staring at the opposite corner of the cell. His mind wasn't in the room anymore. It was far away....feeling the noose already tightening around his neck.

The voice came again"…You set for execution too?"

Ian blinked, then gave a dry nod before realizing the man couldn't see him.

"Yeah," he muttered. "They said I'll be executed....I'm not accepting it." His voice wasn't loud, but it was firm now. "There's no way I'm dying here like some stray dog. I have to escape."

The man across the cell said nothing for a while, Ian didn't mind, he wasn't talking for comfort.

He was just saying it out loud now...not as a hope, but a decision.